Private - November 30, 1999
So . . . McGonagall gave me this thing a couple of hours after I woke up. She said that everyone's got them now and then she looked at me funny and said writing in here might help. I didn't honestly think I'd even look twice at this thing. It's such a plain looking thing, just a book full of empty pages and it's not like I'm a writer or anything. It's likely that the most artistic bone I've got in my body is the one that means my stick wizards look like people and not just sticks.
Merlin, I don't know what I'm saying. I guess I'm trying to say that I'm not much of a writer and I didn't expect to be putting my quill to this stupid journal's parchment ever but then . . . here I am.
I guess part of it is that it's the middle of the night and I'm back at Hogwarts and I've just turned my back on pretty much every damn thing that's ever mattered to me. I can't sleep because I see horrible things when I do and I can't wander the halls because I'm not even fully healed yet. It's already been over a week and I'm still too weak to do much. My bones took days to come together properly and they still ache badly and I'm malnourished and fighting off a cold which could turn to pneumonia any second now and . . . Morgana I sound pathetic.
The truth is I'm writing here for lack of anything better to do and because . . . maybe it helps a little. To get out of my head.
Gods only know what a fucked up mess it is in there most of the time, anyway.